Performance Review
by Channel D
Summary: It's the time of year when the annual performance reviews are done. Ziva leads off, others follow in subsequent chapters. How well do you think they will do? They may even surprise themselves.
1. Ziva

**Performance Review**

By ChannelD

_Rating:_ T

_Summary:_ It's annual appraisal time at NCIS. We'll see how everyone is marked, and how they deal with it.

_Genre:_ General fic

_Characters:_ The cast and their first-line supervisors

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_Disclaimer:_ I own nothing of NCIS. Would that it were otherwise.

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**Chapter One: ****Ziva**

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**Memo**** 2007-089**

**Date**: October 10, 2007

**From**: Jennifer Shepard, Director, NCIS

**To**: All First-Line Supervisors

It's that time of year again. We are in a new fiscal year, and by now you should have finished writing your FY 2007 employee performance reviews. Be sure that you have scheduled time to meet with your staff to go over their performance plans, including discussing the changes noted for FY 2008. You _must _read aloud to your staff the sections marked _read __aloud_ in the management copy, even if you and your staff have gone over them for the last 10 years. There are no shortcuts allowed. All reviews, signed by you and your staff, must be turned in to my office by COB October 31, as required under DOD-OPM standard 134.80.C.

--Jenny

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_Thursday morning: _The date that sat at the top of his monitor was like a scold. _October 25 already.__ Guess I'd better get to it._ With no field assignments to distract the team this morning, Gibbs found the pesky call to do the performance reviews ringing loudly in his mind.

Part of this was due to Jenny, who sent out nag-mails on the subject every other day. _Have you done them yet?_ she would ask. _Remember, the deadline is October 31._ What would happen if they weren't done by then? Would they all be fired? Turn into dust? Be stoned by trick-or-treaters? Achieve happier lives?

_How to decide the order this year? __Alphabetical?_ "Ziva," he called, as her last name was first, alphabetically. "With me. Performance review time."

She jumped to it, over Tony's grimace and Tim's frown. Ziva always came out well on these reviews, and she knew it.

They headed for a third-floor conference room. Gibbs' favorite room for this purpose was number 310. It was small, windowless, and mostly featureless, discouraging his people from looking around and prolonging the agony for both of them. This time, however, a sign on the door declared it to be unavailable due to a water leak. Gibbs growled at the door, as if it had had something to do with the damage.

"Rooms 307 and 313 are available," Jenny's secretary, Cynthia, said as she passed by. "Everything else is booked until the first of November, because of the on-going remodeling."

"How nice!" said Ziva. "Both rooms have windows. I've never understood why you want to close us in in that stuffy 310, Gibbs."

He didn't answer that. _Maybe because if I get too riled during these reviews, I might be tempted to throw myself out the window._ _TPTB wouldn't like it if I threw an employee out the window, either. _"Let's take 307 and get on with this."

She smiled. "I'm in no hurry. I like these reviews."

"Which planet are you from, again?" he asked, opening the door to 307. "_No one_ is supposed to like these things. Only some crackpots in HR who design these things like them. And they probably don't _like_ them; they just were hired to be all-purpose sadists."

"We had some of those in the Mossad, too. But I really do like to have my progress measured. It tests my skills."

Gibbs drew the blinds lightly against the curious, friendly sunbeams and then they sat at the small conference table. From the manila folder he'd been carrying he pulled out papers. "Well, I can't agree that this is the best way to do so, Ziva. They require us to use these narrow, predefined standards, and not deviate from them." He sighed. "As you know, but I am required to tell you, this measures your performance from Ten-one-oh-six to Nine-thirty-one-oh-seven."

"There are, ah, only thirty days in September, Gibbs." She saw his look and quieted. _I don't understand why he doesn't like these reviews as much as I do…_

"There are three ratings for each performance element," he went on. "A 'one' means 'needs improvement'. A 'three' means 'fully successful'. 'Five' is 'outstanding'. A 'three' rating should carry no shame whatsoever—"

She sprang up; eyes blazing. "You gave me _threes??!!"_

He motioned to her, sternly, to sit down. "—no shame whatsoever. It is a measure that the employee is doing everything asked of him or her in the job, and, often, then some. To achieve a 'five' rating, the employee must not only meet all of the requirements of the 'three' level, but surpass these to an outstanding extent in at least 70 per cent of the requirements.

"The first of the four job elements is 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS'. The requirements, which I don't have to completely read off to you because we went over it last October and at your mid-year review in April, and that should be enough for _both_ of us, include gathering information, completing work as assigned, prioritizing, analyzing, using databases available to us, being up-to-date in technology, working independently when appropriate…"

His voice trailed off when he noticed she was drumming her fingers on the table. He stifled a sigh, and summed it up. "And you did all that and more, giving you a 'five' in that job element."

She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied smile. "Go on."

"Second element: 'Job Knowledge'. This includes familiarity with laws and agency procedures. Demonstrating skill in working in the field, gathering evidence, pursuing leads, apprehending suspects. Maintaining proficiency in the use of firearms and hand-to-hand combat. Staying physically fit. Maintaining composure under stressful and/or dangerous conditions. Completing refresher courses in CPR and first aid. Demonstrating knowledge of keeping oneself safe…You've done all to a high degree. that. I can't find anything to fault, Ziva. You got a 'five'."

Grinning, she pumped the air with her fist, silently. Even Gibbs allowed himself a smile.

"Third element: 'Interpersonal Skills'. This requires that one treats suspects fairly, without resorting to violence unless oneself or others are in danger. Treating witnesses, whether willing or hostile, with courtesy and respect. Communicating clearly. Providing relevant information in a timely fashion. Receiving feedback graciously. Being open to new ways of thinking. Accepting changes willingly."

Gibbs met Ziva's eyes, and the sunny smile she'd been wearing found a cloud passing over it. "What?" she said.

"A 'three', Ziva—"

"That's _impossible_!"

"It's the same mark you got in this element last year. As I told you then, you need to…I don't know. Tone yourself down sometimes. Don't be so brusque, or so…threatening. Don't look like you're about to kill the suspect. Don't _threaten_ the suspect with death or torture…"

"But most of them deserve a little anxiety. They're scum."

"Their guilt is for the courts to decide, not us."

"Oh, come on, Gibbs. You're saying you want me to change my personality? Is it that you want me to act more sweet and feminine?"

He slammed his fist on the table. "Don't exaggerate. You know exactly what I mean. If you could just remember to pull yourself back a little, you'd have that 'five'."

Ziva crossed her arms, not at all mollified. _Only thirteen points so far!_

"And this is the final element," Gibbs went on. " 'Teamwork'." She mouthed it with him, and her dark eyes had gone a little duller in the coming of this last one.

"Teamwork includes, uh, working with—emphasis on _with_—the team. Demonstrating that the integrity of the team is more important than the needs one's needs. Always having a team member's back. Demonstrating being aware of one's teammates' positions in the field, and being ready to come to a teammate's aid in an instant. Working out differences of opinion. Treating teammates with respect. Seeking new ways to improve team morale and exhibiting camaraderie."

She looked glumly at the table. This had always been her hardest element; in her first year Gibbs had given her a 'three', but had warned her she was barely out of the 'one' zone. "So…"

"You've come a long way, Ziva. Your attitude has warmed toward us. I have no doubt that you deserve the 'five' I've given you this time."

"…'Five'?..'_Five'_! I got a '_five'_!! _I got a 'five'_!!" She was jumping up and down, though making no attempt to hug Gibbs; that would be too much. "That's _eighteen points!_ Is it—?"

"Yes, that's an average of 4.5; enough to give you an 'outstanding' rating. Congratulations." He did smile then, as she danced.

"See, I told you I liked performance reviews," she laughed. "How can anyone not like this process?!"

He only smiled a little as he motioned to her to sign the appraisal. _That's easy to say if you're on the receiving end, and your marks are good. Not everyone likes this moronic process._ "Thanks for a job well done," he said then. "Here is a list of the changes for FY 2008. Do you want to go over them now?"

"No, I'll take them with me and read them. Something to work toward!" There was that gleeful, combat-ready glow in her eye. She attacked mundane HR-defined job elements as she would any other enemy.

"I can't wait for the mid-year review!" she said jubilantly, heading out the door.

He smiled again at her, and then stood in reflection when she was gone. _One down, two to go. And this was the easiest one__…_

The ringing cell phone yanked him from his musing. They had a case. There'd be no more performance reviews for his team today. He didn't know which he dreaded doing more: DiNozzo's or McGee's.

- - - - -

_Next: Ducky reviews Jimmy Palmer_


	2. Palmer

**Chapter Two: Palmer**

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"Here you go, sirs. One lamb vindaloo…"

"That would be mine," said Ducky, giving the attractive Punjabi waitress a charming smile.

"…and yours, then, would be the chicken shahi korma," the waitress said to his companion.

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," said Ducky's assistant, Jimmy Palmer. "And the Diet Coke is mine, and the doctor has the iced tea."

"And here is your order of plain nan. Enjoy, gentlemen."

"Plain bread, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky raised an eyebrow, amused. "Have you no sense of adventure? Nan is best eaten with a light garlic covering. Garlic, _Allium S__ativum_, has a long and colorful history. The ancient Greeks placed it at crossroads to placate the goddess Hecate. Are you, perhaps, afraid of disturbing the sensibilities of our guests in Autopsy this afternoon, hmm? I have never noticed any of them responding to anything on my breath."

"Er, no, Doctor," the young man said, with a slight blush. "That's not it."

"Oh. Well, I hope you don't mind my dragging you in here. I thought we might get out of that stuffy building and kill two birds with one stone by doing your performance review over lunch. I hope you didn't have any other lunch plans?"

"Oh, er, no, Doctor." Again a blush that might mean something, or might not. _I hope I'm not graded on my facial expressions,_ Palmer thought, raising his glass of Diet Coke to partly cover his hot face. _Michelle will understand…I think…_

"Right, then. Do you think we can accomplish this while we eat? As you are the only person I supervise, I want to be sure to give you every bit of my attention." Giving Palmer not enough time to answer, he moved on.

"Let me see…" he pulled his trench coat, hanging on a hook, toward him, and extracted roughly rolled papers. Laying them on the table, barely missing his dish's onion sauce, he tried to flatten them out a bit, and then chose to ignore the misbehaving curvatures. "Now I am supposed to read you some folderol concerning how points are determined and all that. As idiotic as the rest of this system is, if you ask me, Mr. Palmer. Let's agree that I read them and you heard them, since indeed we did do that last year."

"Okay, Doctor." This was one of the things Palmer admired in his mentor: a no doubt well-honed sense of which rules must be obeyed, and which should be casually ignored.

"The first of the four elements is "Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS…" He paused for a long draw on his iced tea, and finished that, and half of his glass of ice water; his dish's spices having suddenly mounted an attack. The attentive waitress swiftly brought refills.

"Oh, poppycock," Ducky said, wiping his brow. "If I have no input into how this refuse is written, I shan't be blamed for choosing not to read it." He rolled the papers back up. "Mr. Palmer, tell me: what do _you_ see _your_ role in maintaining NCIS' integrity to be?"

Jimmy Palmer was surprised. This wasn't how last year's review had gone. Then, as a newbie, he had merely held back, taken everything the good doctor had said, nodded and signed the paper set before him. When no one told him he had been fired, he assumed his job was still there, and reported again to work the next morning, and nothing more was said. He liked having an orderly life. With just a little zest. "Ummmm…" He tried to think what was on the performance plan, which he hadn't looked at since the mid-year appraisal in April. Nothing came to mind.

"You have no concept of your part in the great scheme of things, man? Let me give you a hint: _gathering information…_"

Palmer blinked. "Well, I...I work under your direction, Doctor. Our job is to determine if deaths were possibly criminal in nature; things that might be judged by the courts to be manslaughter or homicide. We look at all angles of abuses done to a human body. We use a number of tools, physical and electronic, to do this. We don't stop until we have answers."

"And why is that, Mr. Palmer?"

"Well, uh, who else is going to stand up for these people? They can't stand up themselves…er, you know what I mean, Doctor. If not us, then who?"

"Exactly, my boy. Exactly. Now tell me what one needs to know to successfully perform your job…oh, never mind that. You know your job. Tell me instead about 'Interpersonal Relationships'."

Having just put a forkful of chicken in his mouth, Palmer choked, causing momentary alarm in his boss until he was clearly breathing easily again. "I beg your pardon, Doctor?"

" 'Interpersonal Relationships'…no, I'm sorry. That should be 'Interpersonal Skills'. How well do you interact with others in the workplace? Do you take the time to get close to others? To get to know them below the surface? To walk in their shoes? To bond with them?"

Palmer thought he might faint, but he realized he'd just have to face this again another day. His only hope was to send the subject off onto another track. "I, well, I know there is more to my job than in just assisting you in retrieving and cutting bodies. I have to work with other departments. I have to be able to talk to Abby, for example, in a manner that both of us understand. I know she's often very busy, and can't always get to my specimens right away. And I'm okay with that; she has her work and I have mine. And we get along okay because we respect each other. Some of those special agents frighten me, though. They—"

"Yes, that's fine. Mr. Palmer. You work well with others. Just don't let them ruffle your feathers, dear boy. Their job is not more important than yours. Last job element in the Medical/Technical/Scientist Performance Plan is 'Achieving Agency Results'. How do you do that?"

"I, uh, keep informed of developments in the field, keep my skills up to date, so I can do a better job. I keep trying to learn. There's _always_ more to learn; from you and others. I also try to keep track of the agency directives and try to follow them. I _like_ my job, Doctor Mallard. I really do."

"And why is that, Mr. Palmer?"

The assistant blinked, and realized with sadness that he'd run dry. Again he wished that the doctor had done the performance review by the book (more or less), as he had last year. "I don't know, sir," he said at last. "Maybe I don't know much about achieving agency results. Or anything else. Sometimes I just talk to hear my head rattle."

"Miss, could I get the check, please?...Mr. Palmer—Jimmy--the only thing you don't know much about is when to stop second-guessing yourself. These job elements? They're for the manager with no imagination. Why would I want to spend half my day before a checklist, seeing if you've done this or that requirement on this list every day? Both of us have much better things to do.

"So I'm going to give you a rating of…let's see; 'five' is the highest in each group; 'three' is next. Four groups, I think sixteen is a good score, isn't it? I'd rather it be seventeen, but the numbers can't line up that way."

Palmer, who'd had a solid 'three' rating last year, grinned hugely. "Thank you, Doctor!"

"You're entirely welcome, my boy. Just sign the last page here. I'll figure out later which areas you have 'fives' in, and which have 'threes'. Although I'm pretty sure of one of the 'fives'. "

Feeling giddy with success, Palmer ventured, "The 'Interpersonal Skills'?"

Ducky frowned slightly. "Oh, no. I was thinking of 'Maintaining NCIS Integrity'. You need to continue to practice your interpersonal skills. Every day. During lunch, if suitable. Get some exercise. Have a partner in this, man. I shouldn't have to spell this out for you, at your age."

Palmer, by willpower, kept his jaw from dropping. _I wish to heaven I knew just how much the doctor knows about Michelle and me._

His cell phone vibrated. A text message, from Michelle. _Where R U?_

"Overall, a most successful year, Mr. Palmer. Thank you…No, no; put your money away. Lunch is on me; I _insist_. Really. Take an extra half-hour before you go back to work, since I've taken you away from your normal enjoyments."

"Thank you, Doctor! See you back there!" Palmer grabbed his jacket and hurried out of the little restaurant.

Ducky put down money for the meal and a tip, and got out his cell phone. He texted a message back to Agent Lee. _Yes, Ms. Lee, Mr. Palmer has been at lunch with me. I have sent him back, I believe in your direction, just now._

With a grin he clipped his phone back to his belt. _Oh, to be young and have no greater concern than _interpersonal skills_ ratings again._

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_Next: Jenny reviews Abby_


	3. Abby

**C****hapter Three: Abby**

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She was on time, right on the dot; even allowing for the hand-off at Cynthia's desk. Cynthia was on the phone when Abby appeared at the Director's office Friday morning, but the professional she was, in less than 45 seconds, Cynthia had freed one hand to point to the door to Jenny's inner office. _Go on in. She's expecting you, _the gesture said. Abby knocked, and then entered.

Jenny hung up her own phone when Abby entered, and threw her a polished smile. "Good morning, Abby. Just give me a minute…" She did a little tapping at her computer, then rose and motioned to Abby to join her at a small table.

"Lemon squares! They look delicious! Did you make them?" Abby cautiously reached forward, and took one when she saw the assent on Jenny's face.

"Yes, I had a little free time, so I baked these last night. I find baking is a good, nearly mindless pursuit; a time to mull things over."

"They _are_ delicious. Mmmmm!" Abby said, adding a nod in emphasis as she chewed.

Jenny smiled again, but wondered if Abby said this mostly as a distraction. Having the Big Kahuna be the one who signed your performance review was a frightening thought to many people. Who could one take one's grievances to? _I'm being foolishly cynical. I have no reason to suspect Abby of such things._ "Thank you. Now before I go through the formal, required aspects of your performance review, would you care to make a statement? This does not detract from your opportunity to make a statement at the close of the session." _Oh, do I sound stuffy._

"Yes! Yes, thank you, Director; I _would_ like to make a statement." She pulled a small spiral notebook from a pocket and flipped it open. "I've been writing notes to myself since the mid-year review in April…"

_Looks like lunch will be late today,_ Jenny thought behind a perfectly composed face. _Glad I scheduled this review for 10. __If I'm lucky, we'll be done by 2._

"Point number 1," Abby said, after clearing her throat. "I disagree with this dividing this job success criteria into four 'job elements' categories. Why four? Is this because the special agent performance plan has four categories? My work is not at all like theirs. And why is each job element given equal weight? Is it as important that I play nice with others as it is that I can successfully do chemical analyses? I don't think so.

"Point number 2: Why are the weights divided into ones, threes, and fives? Why not twos, fours, and sixes? I'd just like to know. Mathematically speaking…"

Jenny found her mind drifting, much as she felt obligated to give Abby her full attention. _Some people, like McGee, __came __to NCIS HQ__ scared as rabbits. Abby was never that way. She's good at what she does, and she knows it. Not in the way that Ziva is confident; Ziva practices what she does and has made what she does into an art form. Abby's a scientist through and through. She worships knowledge, and is glad to share what she learns._

"Point number five: Why is the forensic scientist position lumped into the same performance plan as the forensic examiner and the technician? I realize there aren't many of us, but _come on!_ How is my job like some computer tech's? Or like Palmer's?"

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_ Jenny wondered, though didn't voice it. _Maybe I should talk to HR about revising these performance plans._

"I mean, I understand that over half of the employees of NCIS are special agents. That's fine. This is a law enforcement agency, and it's only fitting that most of the employees be out actually apprehending criminals. I just want to be rated on what I actually am called on to do, rather than knowing how long the small intestine is, or the date Vista was released." She paused for a breath.

"And how long _is_ the small intestine?" Jenny asked, amused.

"Approximately 21 feet, in people over five years old," Abby said promptly, not really surprised that Jenny figured she would know this. "But that's not the point. Director, what can I do to see that I get a fair shake? Does anyone care about what I'm called on to do every day?

"Every day is different, you know. I may come in to find half a dozen requests to determine the chemical properties of a homemade cake flour, or a sticky residue, or something with blood mixed in. Or I may be on a long AFIS search for fingerprints, or other ID information. This is _so_ not what those other jobs do.

"Is it that HR doesn't like me? I know I'm a little different from other non-agents. I have all sorts of stuff in my lab that is not government equipment, like my hippo, Bert. I keep a futon for late nights of work, and I log a number of those, believe you me! I talk to my gang, uh, my tech equipment. I play loud music when I'm alone. I, uh, don't exactly dress like other—"

"Abby, stop, please." Jenny's tone was gentle, but firm. "HR is not out to get you. Just between you and me, I sometimes think that all of HR shares one brain, and most of the stuff that comes out of HR was written by people whose day did not include use of the brain. And if you quote me on that, I _will_ kill you. Even if I'm not as skilled as you, and so _would_ leave forensic traces." She smiled wryly, and was glad to see Abby smile a little, too.

"The thing is," Jenny continued, "HR has not been to HQ to evaluate your job description since before you were hired. I think the last time they looked, actually _looked_ at a forensic scientist at work, was in late 2000-early 2001 when we were doing a massive security reassessment following the _Cole_ bombing."

"The _Cole_ was bombed in 2000, Director. _Seven years ago!_ Don't they realize how fast this job, maybe all our jobs, change?!"

"They do. I send them reports, as do the field offices, MTAC, and our shipboard people. But you know that we're cash-strapped, Abby, just like the rest of the government. We can't upgrade everything anywhere nearly as quickly as I'd like."

"You're the Director. Can't you do something?" Abby grumped.

"Minting money is outside my purview. But I can pass along your suggestions to HR."

Abby crossed her arms, not satisfied. "There's a bigger picture to look at, Director. I don't follow my job description to the letter, as you may have noticed. To the extent of my security clearance, I am sometimes called upon to add to the agents' investigations because I'm better with computers than almost anyone here, except Tim McGee. Ducky is a lot better with them than he lets on, too. He's an, uh, older man, but he keeps himself informed. He loves learning."

Jenny looked at her questioningly, but with a slight smile. "Go on…"

"So my point is that either we should all be graded as individuals, without being compared to our peers, our coworkers, someone in the San Diego office or someone on a ship…or on the other extreme, we should scrap these different job descriptions and just have one. Everyone having the same job elements and requirements."

"And do you really want to be compared to Ziva in the handling of a gun?" Jenny laughed.

Abby raised her black eyebrows; small hills denoting a shrug. "I'd get a 'one' to her 'five'. But the tables would be turned when the requirement involved, say, a spectroscopic analysis."

"Hmm. You may be on to something. I can convince HR to do a test of a blind performance plan in a few field offices; maybe even this one." _Why not; I don't seem to have__ nearly__ enough chaos in my life…_ "Let me think about it.

"But we need to get down to brass tacks. First, let me read to you the material I'm required to read aloud…"

She droned on for about two minutes. Even though Abby hated having to listen to it, she was impressed that Jenny took her job seriously enough that she did not deviate from this requirement. _She really does care about NCIS. She cares for it and loves it and would probably do almost anything to save it._

"Here are the remarks I wrote about your fulfillment of the job elements, Abby." Jenny passed her a couple sheets of paper. "In summary, in element #1, 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS', I gave you a 'five'. The same in element #2, 'Job Knowledge', and element #4, 'Achieving Agency Results'. Only in element #3.'Interpersonal Skills', did I have to give you a 'three'. _That's not bad_, _Abby,"_ she added quickly. 'You know that you have a temper, you're sometimes a bit…_exuberant_, and not everyone wants a spontaneous hug—"

"Has that witch from the anti-touchy training seminar been complaining about me again? And I'm sorry; I don't mean to malign any real witches."

Jenny's lips quirked. "No, she hasn't contacted me about you. You're mostly a warm, generous, outgoing person, Abby. I don't recommend that you change, unless you really want to fit in HR's pigeonhole."

Abby was silent for a long moment, looking a trifle glum.

Jenny pushed the dish of lemon squares a little closer to her and said, gently, "For employees moving onto the Outstanding track, the 'Interpersonal Skills' element is the toughest to win. It's the same for the special agents' performance plan. It's designed to be hard, because it's the really rare, shining star, the true _mensch_, who achieves it. And I don't care how well one shoots or how much technical knowledge they have; if they lack the ability to relate to their fellow employees, they won't ever be Outstanding."

Abby thought. "No, I'll take the 'three'. I don't want to change. Eighteen points total is a pretty good score, don't you think? That's an average of 4.5."

"It's a wonderful score; and it falls into the Outstanding average range. You'll see the bonus in your pay check before the end of the year.

"I find your work _exceptional_, Abby. I'm so proud to have you working for us."

"Thank you, Director!" Abby jumped up, and surprised Jenny with a tight hug. She then stepped back, looking abashed. "Uh…I'm not going to be marked down to a 'one' for that, am I?"

Jenny locked eyes with her, but her eyes were twinkling. "I'm not redoing the appraisal. Go, and take the rest of the lemon squares with you. I'm supposed to be on a diet," she laughed.

- - - - -

_Next: Gibbs reviews Tony_


	4. Tony

**Chapter Four: Tony**

**- - - - -**

"Got any questions?"

_Monday, October 29_. Gibbs and Tony sat in room 313; a room running a little too hot due to a broken thermostat. It was, unfortunately, the only room available this morning, as other first-line supervisors also rushed to meet the October 31 deadline for doing the performance reviews with their staff.

Tony was gazing out the window, where trees with leaves just starting to be tinged with color bowed and stretched in the cool autumn brisk wind. One oak tree in the park was already half riotous-red, a breathtaking sight against the blue sky. A squirrel jumped from a tree onto the roof of the building next door; turned their way, and seemed to be scolding them.

Gibbs cleared his throat, and Tony did move a shoulder then. "It doesn't change much, does it boss? I mean, every year or two there's this big deal about supposed changes to the performance plan, but I don't see them. We're asked to know about laws, about technique, about how the agency operates, and about getting along with people. That's all it ever boils down to."

"I suppose you're right."

"Some people get so upset about every little change to these little parts of the 'elements' like their life's going to somehow get miraculously worse, or better, based on every little…what are they called? 'Atoms'?"

" 'Requirements'."

"Not very imaginative. Anyway, I think I've gotten beyond that."

"Last year you picked apart every sentence, every phrase, and argued them with me. You came out with 14 points total, better than the average agent, but still you argued."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I? Bet McGee does the same, doesn't he?" He turned then to Gibbs, but found his face unreadable. "I didn't expect you to answer that, but a _hint_ might have been nice…ah, never mind.

"I think the only trouble I have with these standardized things anymore is that when I'm out in the field, the last thing, the _very_ last thing I want to be thinking about is whether what I do now is going to be measured in April and October. I have to work half by training, half by instinct. Show me where on these blasted papers it says _Takes less than three seconds to size up the dangerous situation, to determine whether I have sufficient weapons to mount an offensive, to know where my team is, to make sure they're protected, to make sure I'm safe, to try to not let the suspect get away._

"Sure, we spend a lot of time using these fancy tech toys and the good ol' telephone to track leads. And most of the time it's productive. But you know, I feel the most alive when I'm in the field. Even when it's dangerous. That's the only place where I feel recognized for what I do—recognized by myself, I mean. Because every time I enter a room at a suspect site, a suspect's house, for example, and I go through a room and can call out, _'Clear!'_, I know it's because I know how to handle this situation. Every time I do it, I gain experience, and become better at it.

"No one can do a special agent's job but another special agent. I couldn't have done this when I was a cop. The special agent learning curve is steep. People come from such varied backgrounds to NCIS: Kate was the closest to a natural, coming from the Secret Service. I miss her…Ziva came from a tougher, warzone background. She's had to learn to tone herself down to do a good job. And she's done that well. McGeek, I still don't know why he came here. He's a mystery to me. But he's okay, and good for the team, most of the time.

"So where is this reflected in the performance plan? Where does it say that you can be ragging on a coworker at 9 a.m., and then saving his life at 11 a.m.? It doesn't. All it says is that you have to get along well with others; to treat them with respect. 'Good morning, McGee. You're looking uncommonly dapper this morning, my good man.' No. No no no! Any more than I'm going to cuff a piece of vermin who's just offed his girlfriend in a gruesome manner, and say to him, 'You know, dear fellow, the US constitution affords you a number of generous rights, because even though we caught you in the act, we will treat you with tenderness, because we love our fellow man.' Yuck. I may have to throw up.

"Last year I argued with you, boss. But I've had a rough 12 months since then. I'd rally against the system, if I could. If I thought it would do any good."

Tony sighed, and turned back to the window, and watched colored leaves break free from their mooring on the trees; fleeing in gleeful abandon. "I wouldn't say that I don't care anymore. I _do_ care. I care about NCIS, and a lot of things. But this—it's a waste of time. I don't care what score I get, as long as it doesn't get me fired."

"Sixteen," said Gibbs.

"Beg pardon?"

"Sixteen. It's your cumulative score. Two points higher than last year. Last year your only 'five' was in 'Job Knowledge'. This year you also got one in 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS'. You've done much better in working independently and fitting pieces together to solve riddles. Congratulations."

They shook hands, Tony wearing a goofy grin. "Well. Wow. Sixteen. Wow."

"You deserved it. I appreciate all your hard work, Tony."

"Thanks…uh, I don't suppose you'd…"

"Tell you what I gave McGee? Forget it!"

"Well, it was worth a try," _There must be a way I can hack into the system..._

"And don't try to hack into the system!"

"Wouldn't dream of it, boss. I'll, uh, just go back to work now."

- - - - -

_Next: Jenny reviews Ducky_


	5. Ducky

**Chapter Five: Ducky**

- - - - -

_Afternoon, __Monday __October 29. _Jenny came out of her office, looking a trifle flustered and a smidge embarrassed."Ducky. I'm so sorry. I didn't expect this teleconference with the Chief of Naval Operations to run this long, and we're not done yet. Would you like to reschedule…?"

The chief medical examiner looked at his boss, a woman nearly young enough to be his daughter, over the rims of his glasses. "Jennifer," he said in a no-nonsense tone, "That will have been the third time that you have rescheduled my performance review. Now I know your schedule is busy, dear girl, but alas, so is mine." He rose; his face plastered with indifference too cool to be genuine.

"Wait!"

He turned, and saw something unexpected in her face. Regret? Shame for her treatment of him? Not for the first time did he feel old among these people, who sometimes saw him not as a peer, but as a person to be venerated solely due to his age. He wondered if it were time for him to retire.

"Two minutes, Ducky. Please wait."

"All right. I shall wait two minutes." He sat back down in the armchair in her outer office, feeling his knees creak uncomfortably. Cynthia suavely ignored him.

At three minutes, Jenny returned, and beckoned him in. "Sorry, sorry," she murmured. "Some people just will _not_ stop talking."

They sat on the couch; a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries on the coffee table beside them. "I am so sorry, Ducky. I really am."

"Oh, it's all right, Jennifer…" _How easily__ we lie in situations like this… _

She shook her head, but didn't say anything for a few moments as she thumbed through papers. At last she cleared her throat and, looking down at a paper, began to read. " 'There are four job elements associated with the Medical/Technical/Scientist performance plan. The first one is 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS…" She glanced up at him, made eye contact, and stopped. "Is there something wrong?"

"I just wonder if there's a point to all this."

"Would you rather I just give you your grades?"

"If that's within your power, yes. I've had them read to me often enough, and I've read them to young Palmer often enough, enough so that I think I can recite them. But I know you are required to read certain things aloud."

She smiled, but appeared to be studying him. Pouring tea for each of them, she said, "Ducky, if I had my way, I'd scrap this entire ratings process. But that's not practical unless we want to stop giving awards."

"Is it your opinion that my work is unsatisfactory, Jennifer?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why, among people of our position, is it even necessary to discuss performance plans?"

She looked at him fondly, thinking how much she valued his knowledge, his instincts, his dedication. NCIS without Ducky was unimaginable. "Okay. Just for you, Ducky, I'm going to break a few rules here.

"Your cumulative score is 18. Three 'fives' and a 'three'."

" 'Interpersonal Skills'. The stumbling block of many a man." He shrugged. "I don't really care. If people think I am brusque or ungracious, or are annoyed that I talk to our departed souls, well, let them think it."

"I don't want you to think it, either, Ducky. Maybe the problem with our system is that we point out the negatives rather than celebrating the positives. So let me come up with an off-the-top-of-my-head review of _your_ positives:

"Number 1: 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS': Every time I see you at work, you appear to be doing it because you believe it's important. You understand our mission. You understand that security matters, that we have enemies, that the agency is there to fight and serve and protect, that—"

Ducky put up a hand and laughed. "Stop, please. You're starting to sound like a pep talk on a greeting card, Jennifer. I know why I have 'fives' in three job elements, and 'three' in one of them. Shall I sign the review paper now?"

"Of course…Ducky, I don't want you to leave here without accepting that we feel you're a tremendously valuable part of the agency."

"I'm old. I don't move as fast as I used to, I can't keep up with the slang and the music and the…the _outlook_ the younger people today have. I'm from an age of long ago. I don't think I'm relevant anymore…"

"Relevant? Not relevant?! Ducky, I don't care if McGee's and Palmer's age group suddenly starts speaking Finnish—"

"Japanese. A number of them are learning Japanese. To be able to read _manga_ and watch _anime_ without waiting for the translation."

"Huh. See, you're more in tune with them than you thought! Anyway, so what if they are?! Do they have your experience? No. Or your job knowledge? No. Can they relate current events to past events that you lived through, to see patterns in history? No. Your knowledge is valuable, _You_ are valuable. There is a reason why we venerate age, Ducky. So much knowledge is carried with it…Here, sign the paper, please."

He did so, then grabbed another strawberry.

"Ignore the paper," she continued. "If I could, I could go around to each of the employees, and say to her or him, 'You're valuable. We're glad you're one of us.' "

He rose, and gave her a hard look. "Rather than pretend you can't do it, maybe you should assume that you _can_, and find a way to make it so. You want people to work because they feel appreciated? That's your ticket. Good day."

In stunned silence, Jenny watched him leave, watched him go before she could even wrap up some of the chocolate-covered strawberries for him. Suddenly the bribe-food seemed unimportant.

- - - - -

_Next: Gibbs reviews Tim_


	6. Tim

**Chapter Six: Tim**

- - - - - -

_Afternoon, Tuesday, October 30. _He was working furiously on the current case from the comforting nest of his computer; clicking, following links, coaxing once-wild databases to eat out of his hand, performing wonders.

Gibbs studied the youngest member of his team from his own desk, a few feet away. This was Tim McGee in his element; nearly one with his machine. Tim's eyes almost glowed with pleasure as his searches rewarded him with mini-facts—alone they were almost unnoticeable, but strung together, they evolved into answers to the case puzzle. Gibbs sighed. _I can't delay this…it's already 3 o'clock…_ He'd already decided he would do this late in an afternoon, so Tim, responding as he always did, wouldn't have to stew in his misery for the rest of the day…

"McGee." He rose and beckoned to Tim to follow, and he headed for the stairs to the third floor.

Gibbs hadn't said what he wanted of Tim; hadn't wanted to be the initiator of a scene. But Tony, Tony, was there to pick up the bad pieces. "Woo hoo! Performance Review time for the Probster!" he mocked. "There'll still be time afterwards to hack into the system and bring your marks up, McGeek!"

When he sensed that Tim wasn't following him, Gibbs looked back over his shoulder. Tim stood at his desk, shaking, breathing heavily, while Tony made faces at him and Ziva only chuckled. "McGee! _TODAY_!" Gibbs snapped, and that got his agent moving.

Both rooms 307 and 313 were occupied. The efficient Cynthia looked up when Gibbs entered Jenny's outer office. "We've temporarily freed up room in 324 and 327," she said before he spoke. "Better grab one of them quickly, though…or you'll be waiting until 9 tonight for free space on this side of the building."

Room 324 and 327 were on the far, north side of the building, away from most of what interested special agents. This included Intel's domain; some rambling, less-classified outposts of MTAC; and miscellaneous support staff. These two rooms weren't even conference rooms; they had long been used for storage and were only habitable in the short term because boxes and abandoned equipment had been pushed aside, and two chairs had been brought in to a small, cleared area in each. Gibbs opened the door to 324 with his admin passkey, withdrew in distaste at the quarters so small that they'd give a submariner the willies, and opened 327. It was a smidge larger, and, by having a window, seemed less crowded. Gibbs chose that room.

He sat. Tim took the other chair, and in sitting, tumbled over with it. Red-faced he rose; tried to settle the chair, and fell again. On the third time, he got it to steady, and sat cautiously in it, his face in his hands.

"What are you nervous about?" Gibbs asked, though he knew the answer. "Your marks are good. Very good."

"No…" Not a statement of disbelief; more like one of fact.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"They're never good enough. _I'm _never good enough."

"McGee, you're being ridiculous."

"No. Ever since kindergarten I've frozen when I take tests. I'm no good at them; I'm no good, period. I never was, never…" He shook as he said it.

The thermostat here was broken in the opposite direction from the room in which Gibbs and Tony had talked. In 327, the temperature felt like 60, and the steady rain coming down outside did little to warm the room. Gibbs stared at the thermostat, and gave it a few whacks to show who was boss. "McGee, you didn't have to take any tests. This is just an assessment of your work over the last twelve months. Other than showing up to do your job, _you_ didn't have an opportunity to affect the outcome."

Tim shook his head violently. "You don't get it, boss. Show me the first job element. 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS.'"

"I would have expected you to have it memorized by now, McGee," Gibbs said, half-smirking.

"Well, I do, actually. My point is, I don't measure up. Even if you tell me, for whatever reason you have, that you think I've done well, I'll know…I'll know…"

"Know what, McGee?"

He was fighting to hold back tears now. "I'll never be good enough. I never have been."

"Now how could you possibly get as far as you have, and not be good enough? You started MIT when you were 16! How can you not be good enough?!"

"Intelligence has nothing to do with it. That's just a tool. I don't…I can't measure up to, to Tony or Ziva. I can't be the agents they are."

"No one's asking…"

_"Yes, they are! _That's the _whole point_ of these assessments: to pigeonhole people; to create one standard and rate people on whether or not they fit along those lines! And I don't fit; I can't make myself fit!" He grabbed a paper from Gibbs' hand. "Look, the requirements in this job element include 'gathering information'. I do that by instinct, which is not, almost ever, what they taught us at FLETC. I can't help it; it's just the way that seems right to me. Then there's this one on 'analyzing'. Same thing. 'Being up-to-date in technology'? You know I keep pressing for new stuff, but it's never the stuff the agency wants to buy. And then—"

"McGee, stop. You got a 'five' in that job element. What more do you want?"

Tim looked up at him, eyes shallow with defeat. "I want to be normal. To be successful because I'm like an average agent."

"With your brains???"

"I want to honestly earn those points. I haven't."

"Because you think you do things differently."

"Because I don't match the standards the agency has set down! Look at job element number two, 'Job Knowledge'. Tony's been doing this longer than I have; if anyone deserves a 'five', it's him."

"But you can recite agency directives and federal regs. Other people have to look them up. And you do apply yourself to the other requirements. You keep yourself fit—"

"Not like Tony."

"You maintain proficiency in firearms and hand-to-hand combat—"

"Not like Ziva."

"You know how to keep yourself safe—"

"But it seems I'm still always falling over my feet, and getting myself into trouble!"

Gibbs bit back an oath. "McGee, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to talk me into lowering your grades…_do I_ know better?

"McGee, what do I need to do to get you out of this funk?!"

The answer came as a whisper. "Tell me I've failed."

_"What?!"_

"Everyone tells me I must be doing good, because I'm..I'm bright. Bright people aren't…aren't allowed to fail, you see. Oh, I try hiding my feelings. But Tony suspects. And he's always goading me. There's such a conflict in me. You telling me I've got good grades, when I _know_ that if I were really measured objectively, you'd see—"

"I still don't understand."

"Have you ever heard of _kakorrhaphiophobia?_"

"No."

"It's the fear of failure. I've had it ever since kindergarten, maybe before. It's what causes me to panic when I have to take a test."

"And it's not mentioned in your file."

"No; why would I volunteer that? I'd never have gotten the job."

"Are you…in treatment for it?"

"There's really no treatment, outside therapy. And I did see a therapist for awhile, when I was younger. Didn't do much good. And it's not a condition that responds to medication. I have to live with it."

"So that's why these performance reviews throw you. You can't accept that you've done well."

"I _know_ I haven't. I can't measure up. It's funny," he said, his eyes watering, "that most of the year I can come to work and feel fine. But in October and April, I feel like I'll never, never succeed. I'm not good enough, boss…should I resign? You can find someone better…"

"Shut up. I don't have the time or the energy to break in another rookie." _This is getting nowhere…_

Gibbs took back the paper from McGee. "I'm going to give you your scores, and we'll work on a plan to increase your confidence. I can't have you feeling ineffectual if you're going to be out in the field, McGee."

"I—I understand…"

"You scored an 18. That's enough to give you the _outstanding_ bonus. You got 'fives' in everything but 'Interpersonal Skills, which is a really, really tough one to achieve a 'five' in. Very good job, McGee. You're an asset to the team."

"But I got a 'three'."

"Yes, but almost no one…"

"I failed that element."

_"No,_ McGee. You fully performed everything that was asked of you in that element. Like 99.99 per cent of all agents. You _passed.__"_

"_Passed,_ but didn't do everything I could have done. I could have…gotten along better with Tony and Ziva. Been stronger, somehow. This is the social skills element, and I have no social skills, like Tony's always telling me…So…I failed." _What will I tell Mom and Dad?__That I could have done better, but I didn't?__ That it's because I have a lousy personality?_

Gibbs sighed. "Sign the paper, if you would. You'll feel better about this in the morning."

Tim wiped his eyes, and reached for a pen. He halted as a siren made them both jump.

_"May I have your attention, please," _came a recorded voice. _"May I have your attention, please. A fire has been reported in the building. All floors, please evacuate in an orderly manner, as you have been previously instructed. Do not, repeat, do not use the elevators." _The sirens whooped again before the recording repeated.

Gibbs was already out the door, Tim close behind. They stopped at the fire panel on the wall, just down the hall. "This floor," he said, reading the indicator. "Near Intel. Come on!"

Intel was like a frightened mob; people arguing about to what extent the computers should be closed down, what personal effects should be taken with, even if it was worth evacuating, because it's 'probably just another drill.' Gibbs looked around for Zelig, the director, but didn't see him. His new assistant, Donaldson, was arguing with one employee and ignoring the big picture.

A bang, like an explosion, rocked the building, and knocked out most of the lights. Several people screamed. Gibbs raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled. "Out! In an _orderly, calm_ fashion! _Now!"_ He started herding people out in the dark.

So was Tim; like a sheep dog, running here and there. Helping a woman into a raincoat. Convincing another to leave her four potted plants behind; well, maybe take one. Finding an aide for a man who walked with a cane. Coaxing a woman out who was convinced she'd be safer saying put; getting firm with a man who was insisting the power would come back on momentarily, and he needed to keep working. _"Move it!" _Tim bellowed, and bodily picked the startled man up and marched him to the door.

Tim ran back into the odd-shaped room, looking into all the tiny side rooms and alcoves. _Clear…clear…clear…_

"McGee! Come on! We've got to get through the smoke before we're trapped up here!" Gibbs beckoned. "Everyone's out and accounted for!"

They opened the door to the stairwell. It was full of smoke, possibly coming down from the attic-like fourth floor. Fortunately, fire truck sirens heralded their arrival.

"Good work in there, McGee," Gibbs said, closing the stairwell door. "Let's wait until tomorrow to finish your performance review. I have some more things to go over with you. Tonight, go home and say to yourself one hundred times: _I am not __a__ failure._ Got that?"

Tim smiled wanly. "Want to sign on as my therapist, boss?"

"I have enough hobbies. You can get through this yourself."

- - - -

_Next: Jenny reviews Gibbs_


	7. Gibbs

**Chapter Seven: Gibbs**

- - - - -

_Morning, Wednesday, October 31. _"You're late, Jethro."

"Only seven minutes, and I did call Cynthia. I wanted to check on the fire damage." Gibbs pulled a chair over to the small cocktail round table in Jenny's office, making it hard for her to choose to sit anywhere else.

_These little domination games we play,_ she thought, and glanced toward the door, to make sure it was shut. "Too early in the day for you for Irish coffee?"

"Never too early for any kind of coffee." He watched, in appreciation, as she poured hot coffee and then measured the whiskey, sugar and heavy cream into the coffee glasses. _"Sláinte,"_ he said as she sat down and raised her glass.

"Here's looking up your old address," she parried, and they both grinned. "So what was your assessment of the damage? I've been to see it, too, of course."

"Well, it burned a fair amount of old files, but nothing too valuable, I hope."

"No; things we hadn't gotten around to shredding. The cause is still unknown. But there was smoke damage and a little water damage, too. I'm more concerned with the repair costs than the loss of papers…I understand that you and McGee helped move people out of Intel yesterday."

"'Shove' is a more apt word. Why did you hire Donaldson?! She was worse than useless."

Jenny winced, and changed the subject. "I have all of your team's performance reviews except for McGee's. What's the holdup there?"

He lifted one eyebrow. "Fire alarms yesterday. We need to finish our discussion, but you'll have it by COB today."

"Please see that I do." The polite words barely masked the steel underneath. "Now, down to yours…"

"Do you still have last year's? You could just copy that and I'll sign it."

"Tempting, isn't it? But enough of the wording has changed for that not to be practical. Do you want to go over the job elements?"

"I'd rather stick a needle in my eye."

Jen raised an eyebrow of her own. "Element number one: 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS'. It—"

"Hold it right there. I really don't need to have it, or any of the others, read to me."

"Fine."

"Who's reviewing these this year?"

"Who's…?"

"Oh, come on, Jen. I don't believe for a moment that all the reviews stop at your desk."

"Well, of course they do. I'm the head of the agency."

"And you're going to tell me that a few key people in HR don't read certain people's reviews, even though they swear up and down that they merely _file_ the reviews? How is it then that I overheard two other team leaders discussing DiNozzo's 2006 review a few months ago? I'm pretty sure _you_ didn't leak that info. And I know _I_ didn't."

Jenny's face had gone purple; an unpleasant contrast to her green suit and red hair. _"Why didn't you tell me this at the time?!"_

Gibbs shrugged; a casual act with deliberate, anything-but-casual meaning. "You weren't very receptive to anything at the time."

"Don't you start with me being in 'one of my moods', Jethro. I know misdirection when I hear it."

"So do I. Are you going to tell me that you weren't aware that you have some bad apples in HR?'

"Well…"

"These people are _dangerous_, Jen. The leaks are neither fun nor harmless. The team leaders may think the leaks are amusing—"

"_Who_—"

He held up a hand, signaling _stop_. "I'm not going to name names. But if they talk about it among themselves, it's very likely that someone else will overhear it, and pass it on. I am _not_ about to let my people be victimized!"

"I can understand that. All right; I'll see what I can do…" She met his eyes; found them hard as granite.

Standing up, she picked up both of their coffee glasses and set them on the coffee service tray. Turning one's back bought a little time. Unless one's guest was truly angry.

" '_See what you can do?_' Are you just out of FLETC? Jen_, take command, dammit!_ Or do you care so little for your people that—"

She spun to face him. _"That's enough!"_

"I don't think it is." He shot up; fists clenched. "If you're set on maintaining the status quo, you'll lose a lot of good people…and emotionally maim others. Is that what you want to see happen, Director? Is that your vision for NCIS?"

He walked toward her, walked around her once, slowly, at a fair distance. "How did the HR people do it, Jen? Did they work their way into your confidence? Ask for your help on something; maybe clarifications of your directives? Seem overly gracious and flattering? Was each request a little more cordial, maybe a little more informal? Are you on a first-name basis with them now? Do you feel relaxed in their company; relaxed and trusting?

"Have you violated the agency's security standards with them, Jen? Maybe not bothering to encrypt the personnel files you send them, because, well, you now like them and trust them? And what harm can there be from people you trust?

"People talk about taking _reasonable precautions._ What _are _the _reasonable precautions_ here, Jen? Or did you feel that you did not need even those?

He lowered his voice as he stopped inches before her, facing her. "What's your answer, Jen? Think carefully; it may affect the very future of the agency."

Her face was tight with shock, still taking this in. "I've been such a fool," she finally said, quietly. "I don't believe I could have been duped like that. They may even be disseminating this outside NCIS, to…anyone. Anyone who will pay for it."

"_Now_ you're thinking."

"I've got to get right on this," she said, a shake in her voice, heading for her desk. "Can we wrap up your performance review quickly?"

He smirked. "As I said earlier, if you have a copy of last year's review, I'll sign that one."

"Oh, no. Last year you got 'fives' in 'Job Knowledge' and 'Achieving Agency Results' and 'threes' in the others. This year, you've got the 'five' in 'Maintaining the Integrity of NCIS', I've just decided. I'll fix that part and get it down to you for your signature before six."

"Yeah. Okay," he said, a little uncomfortable at being at the receiving end of so high a score. _Eighteen points! People like Ziva and McGee get that, but me??_

But he smiled to himself as he walked out—Jenny already on the phone and evidently, had forgotten him. There was always next year. Like a sailor busted down in his ratings for bar brawling, he might be able to mis-redeem himself and bring his markings down to a more respectable 14 or so.

- - - - -

Back at his desk, Gibbs found a gift from an anonymous benefactor; a break in the current case. He sent Tony and Ziva out to pedal after it. That should buy him the time he needed to finish Tim's review. Tim sat at his own desk, typing away; oblivious to everything but his screens and his coffee cup.

Tim's performance review file on his computer looked pretty much like the others'. It contained the still-unsigned review, and scads of notes Gibbs had jotted to himself over the last 12 months. He'd long ago learned not to trust his memory; decisions like appraisals should be based on facts. More recently, he'd learned how to do this on a pocket electronic device and transfer the data to his computer. Not all technology was daunting.

The 'fives' were solid. McGee deserved those, no doubt about it. Too bad about that three…

He opened the file on the computer for that job element, 'Interpersonal Skills', and read once again the requirements.

_The agent will:_

_Treat suspects fairly, without resorting to violence unless oneself or others are in danger.  
Treat witnesses, whether willing or hostile, with courtesy and respect.  
Communicate clearly.  
Provide relevant information in a timely fashion.  
Receive feedback graciously.  
Be open to new ways of thinking.  
Accept changes willingly.  
Work well with the team or close co-workers; be supportive.  
Be well thought-of by co-workers.  
Be kind.  
Be strong.  
Put others first.  
Adapt quickly in hazardous situations.  
Love one's fellow man…_

There were six more, for a total of 20 requirements. Many agents did very well in perhaps six to eight requirements; to achieve 70 per cent, the minimum level for a 'five' rating, would mean doing exceptionally well in at least fourteen requirements.

Gibbs went over his notes again, but found his mind wandering to the previous day's fire. He hadn't given Tim his full attention, of course, but he'd been pleased with how Tim had handled himself there: helpful, kind, forceful, as needed, but always caring. This wasn't anything new, either; he'd observed this in Tim before, numerous times. He hadn't always written this down, because it just seemed to be part of Tim's personality.

Yet it was this personality that carried over into his work; that affected everything he did…

Gibbs stared at the screen, counting over and over…

Finally he called upstairs on the phone. "Cynthia, are there any conference rooms available right now?"

She laughed and laughed. "You procrastinators! I've just sent two pairs to McDonald's and Sbarro's. Would you like me to make a reservation for you at either fine establishment?"

"Forget it," he said, hanging up and getting up. "McGee! My office!"

- - - - -

Gibbs slapped the button to halt the elevator immediately after it started down. The much-abused machine sighed and stopped.

"You didn't sign the review yesterday," Gibbs said. "I need you to sign it, now."

Tim pulled a pen from his pocket, and bravely bent over to do so on the clipboard Gibbs held out. He was so obviously trying to stay in control of himself, but his pale face and shaking hand broadcast his inner fright.

"Oh, one thing you should know," Gibbs said casually, not meeting Tim's eyes, "is that I changed one score. You got a 'five' in 'Interpersonal Skills'. Congratulations. That's the first perfect twenty I've heard of coming out of this location in a long time."

"Wha—wha—wha—how—?"

"I rechecked the fact, and then the figures. You needed to make 'outstanding' in 70 per cent of the requirements. After I added everything back up, you did so in 75 per cent. Are you okay with that?"

"Well—well-YES!—I AM!—I AM! _Thank you, boss!!"_ Tim's grin was huge.

"Don't thank me. You earned this. But no thoughts of failure?"

Tim shook his head so hard his hair flew. "No! It's funny, but when I get a perfect score on something, I feel a lot less like I didn't deserve it. Perfect scores should be rare."

Gibbs grinned back at him. "Agreed. But remember, this is good for FY 2007 only. You've got to prove yourself all over again for FY 2008."

"I'll work at it," Tim said with determination.

"You do that," Gibbs laughed, clapping him on the back. "Now let's give everyone this elevator back."

- - - - -

_Next: Jenny's review_


	8. Jenny

**Chapter Eight: Jenny**

- - - - -

She stood at her window, looking out on a near-perfect Hallowe'en night. The third-quarter moon journeyed across the cloudless sky. Were the base not a serious place of business, one might see people in costume, rather than people in uniform, strolling by. Winds raced through the trees, bent on stripping them of their leaves. Jenny, too, felt the trees' struggle; the pain of feeling torn apart.

The late-afternoon meeting at the Pentagon with her boss, the Secretary of the Navy, had not gone particularly well, in her estimation. Kel was a personable enough man, and she both liked and respected him. But he knew her problems, and they were, to some extent, formidable. She rehashed bits of it in her mind…

_"You_ are _driven, Jenny. But by what? Old scores you're trying to settle? What about the current business of the agency?"_

_"I_ always _have my mind on the current business, Kel."_

_"That's not what I hear on the street."_

She had not told him yet about the problem with Human Resources. Before she did that, she wanted to write up her action plan, and implement it. That would certainly keep her up nights for awhile. _Where has that information gone? Where is it going right now? How much damage has been done?_

As much as she loved this job, she hated it, too.

_"Jenny, do you think you have the right __ratio__ of special agents to support staff? This war on terror we're in—it's ever more a matter of having more intelligence than the other side does. I think we should beef up Intel, and cut back on the number of special agents hired."_

_"But NCIS is not just about the war on terror—"_

_"No, it's also about the war OF terror, as Borat said." Kel had a sense of humor._

_She'd smiled politely. "It's not just about that. Day to day, we investigate criminal, non-terrorist, matters. Navy and Marine personnel who do bad, though human, actions.__Or have badness done to them.__ Murders, __thefts, drugs, and so on.__ Our agents have brains, too. Intel is only a part of what we do."_

Of course Intel would always be the lesser-favored child to her, much as she hated to think of it that way. She'd risen up as a special agent, and that was the job she understood best. _They will not take food out my babies' mouths,_ she thought.

_"There's also the matter of you and…or should I say, 'versus'?...your personnel, Jenny. I hear you've had some confrontations with your middle managers over some of your actions."_

_"I don't believe everything I hear; I don't think you should, either, Kel." Ouch. That came out sharper than she'd expected. She really wished her beverage was wine or scotch instead of simple coffee, but Kel was a tee__totaler. She really wished she didn't have a yen for alcohol when the going got tough._

_I used to be able to get along __anywhere __without a crutch…_

_"I'm sorry, Kel. I'm surprised__ to hear of a report like that. I can't imagine anyone would think we have any more than the usual amount of, uh, disagreements. The kind that every agency gets."_

Looking out at the night, she raised the glass of scotch to her lips. The higher up you go, in any company, the more you have to lie.

She didn't like what she'd become. But there was no going back now, if she was to get the job done. Was there?

_"Well, that's good to hear.__ You know, Jenny, people say that you have more temper than is good for you. And they don't think it's just something that goes with red hair, either."_

_"People say all sorts of unkind things." She'd put on a fake smile to show that the remark didn't hurt her. Her father had always told her to be proud of her beautiful red hair, but all her life she'd heard the cruel remarks. Kel was too nice to be __unkind__; too smart to be thoughtless. He was serious._

_"You don't think your temper affects your performance?"_

_"I certainly try to keep it in place. But you know, Kel, there is a season for everything. Including temper."_

Almost ten o'clock. She should think about going home soon.

Trying to get Kel out of her mind for a few minutes, she sat down in front of her computer and called up the performance reviews. All were finally in, although Jethro had turned in McGee's at 5:58 p.m.; it had been the last one to arrive.

_What a good group I've got,_ she thought, looking through the reviews. She never second-guessed the first line supervisors on this. Not that she ever fully read all of the reviews; ones from other posts were often just skimmed. The people she saw on a day-to-day basis were different; she looked forward to a good report on her people the way a parent looks to a doctor for a clean bill of health on a child. Some of the reports from this building stood out.

_Palmer._ Nice to see that he's doing well. Ducky won't be around forever.

_Lee. _Legal says she can be a handful, but they like her a lot.

_Ziva._ She's aiming for the top. She'll work hard to get there. Good for her.

_Tony._ The score isn't really a big deal to him. As long as he's shown some appreciation for the work he does, he's happy. That's not a bad attitude.

_Tim. _When did I stop thinking of him as just _McGee_? A perfect 20. Heavens. Gibbs is so proud of him. He doesn't say it; he never would. But I can see it there, between the lines.

_"Jenny, I'm glad I don't have to rate you on t__his silly one-three-five scale."_

_"So am I, Kel. So what's the verdict? Do I pack my bags, or get to order a new desk lamp?"_

_He smiled then. "You passed. I've known you for a number of years, Jenny. You don't really need me to tell you where you could use improvement, or how to do your job. I don't think I _could_ do __your job.__ In fact, I'm sure I couldn't. __Just look at you. While you're mostly a desk jockey,__ you maintain prof__iciency in the use of a firearm!__"_

_"I have to. The Director of NCIS is still a special agent."_

_Again a smile. "And a very good one, most of the time. Well, just don't __shoot any of your agents and then say, 'I don't _think_ I meant to do that…'"_

_She snickered then. "If I shoot one of them, it'll be because I meant to."_

_"Just be sure you have a good alibi. Thanks for coming in, Jenny. May the next fiscal year be __more__ successful for you __than__ the last."_

_"And for you, too, Kel. See you at the Senate hearing next week."_

She set the glass of scotch down. The dimly-lit room echoed with the words of the people she'd evaluated.

_Ducky:_ "Rather than pretend you can't do it, maybe you should assume that you _can_, and find a way to make it so. You want people to work because they feel appreciated? That's your ticket. Good day."

_Abby: _"The _Cole_ was bombed in 2000, Director. _Seven years ago!_ Don't they realize how fast this job, maybe all our jobs, change?!"

_Jethro: _"If you're set on maintaining the status quo, you'll lose a lot of good people…and emotionally maim others. Is that what you want to see happen, Director? Is that your vision for NCIS?"

She had a lot of work to do in the new fiscal year: a lot of wrongs to be set right, a lot of procedures to overhaul, a lot of people's confidence to win back. It would be hard work, particularly that last item, but she felt up for it.

With a determined nod, she closed all the files and, using the most up-to-date encryption, sent them to HR, with a note to HR's head to call her in the morning.

- END -


End file.
